Chapter VII: Part 7

"The key worked," he said, "and you may have my daughter."

Simpson has her now and is his father-in-law's partner in business. Sometimes, looking at the color of his wife's eyes, and the graceful but somewhat square conformation of her jaws, he wonders a little what experiences time may bring him. But she is different from her mother in many ways, and Simpson is a more adaptative and inventive man than his father-in-law ever was. He is not much worried.

CHRISTMAS 200,000 B.C.

It was Christmas in the year 200,000 B.C. It is true that it was not called Christmas then--our ancestors at that date were not much given to the celebration of religious festivals--but, taking the Gregorian calendar and counting backward just 200,000 plus 1887 years this particular day would be located. There was no formal celebration, but, nevertheless, a good deal was going on in the neighborhood of the home of Fangs. Names were not common at the time mentioned, but the more advanced of the cave-dwellers had them. Man had so far advanced that only traces of his ape origin remained, and he had begun to have a language. It was a queer "clucking" sort of language, something like that of the Bushmen, the low type of man yet to be found in Africa, and it was not very useful in the expression of ideas, but then primitive man didn't have many ideas to express. Names, so far as used, were at this time derived merely from some personal quality or peculiarity. Fangs was so called because of his huge teeth. His mate was called She Fox; his daughter, not Nellie, nor Jennie, nor Mamie--young ladies did not affect the "ie" then--but Red Lips. She was, for the age, remarkably pretty and refined. She could cast eyes which told a story at a suitor, and there were several kinds of snake she would not eat. She was a merry, energetic girl, and was the most useful member of the family in tree-climbing. She was an only child and rather petted. Her father or mother rarely knocked her down with a very heavy club when angry, and after her fourteenth year rarely assaulted her at all. So far as She Fox was concerned, this kindness largely resulted from discretion, the daughter having in the last encounter so belabored the mother that she was laid up for a week. The father abstained chiefly because the daughter had become useful. Red Lips was now eighteen.

Fangs was a cave-dweller. His home was sumptuously furnished. The floor of the cave was strewn with dry grass, something that in most other caves was lacking. Fangs was a prominent citizen. He was one of the strongest men in the valley. He had killed Red Beard, another prominent citizen, in a little dispute over priority of right to possession of a dead mastodon discovered in a swamp, and had for years been the terror of every cave man in the region who possessed anything worth taking.

On this particular morning, which would have been Christmas morning had it not come too early in the world's history, Fangs left the cave after eating the whole of a water-fowl he had killed with a stone the night before and some half dozen field mice which his wife had brought in. She Fox and Red Lips had for breakfast only the bones of the duck and some roots dug in the forest. Fangs carried with him a huge club, and in a rough pouch made of the skin of some small wild animal a collection of stones of convenient size for throwing. This was before man had invented the bow or even the crude stone ax. He came back in a surly mood because he had found nothing and killed nothing, but he brought a companion with him. This companion, whom he had met in the woods, was known as Wolf, because his countenance reminded one of a wolf. He could hardly be called a gentleman, even as times and terms went then. He was evidently not of an old family, for he possessed something more than a rudimentary tail, and, had his face looked less like that of a wolf, it would have been that of a baboon. He was hairy, and his speech of rough gutturals was imperfect. He could pronounce but few words. He was, however, very strong, and Fangs rather liked him.

What Fangs did when he came in was to propose a matrimonial alliance. That is, he grasped his daughter by the arm and led her up to Wolf, and then pointing to an abandoned cave in the hillside not far distant, pushed them toward it. They did not have marriage ceremonies 200,000 B.C. Wolf, who had evidently been informed of Fangs's desire and who was himself in favor of the alliance, seized the girl and began dragging her off to the new home and the honeymoon. She resisted, and shrieked, and clawed like a wild-cat. Her mother, She Fox, came running out, club in hand, but was promptly knocked down by Fangs, who then dragged her into the cave again. Meanwhile the bridegroom was hauling the bride away through furze and bushes at a rapid rate. Red Lips had ceased to struggle, and was thinking. Her thoughts were not very well defined nor clear, but one thing she knew well--she did not want to live in a cave with Wolf. She had a fancy that she would prefer to live instead with Yellow Hair, a young cave man who had not yet selected a mate, and who was remarkably fleet of foot. They were now very near the cave, and she knew that unless she exerted herself housekeeping would begin within a very few moments. Wolf was strong, but slow of movement. Red Lips was only less swift than Yellow Hair. An idea occurred to her. She bent her head and buried her strong teeth deep in the wrist of the man who was half-carrying, half-dragging her through the underwood.

With a howl which justified his name, Wolf for an instant released his hold. That instant allowed the girl's escape. She leaped away like a deer and darted into the forest. Yelling with pain and rage, Wolf pursued her. She gained on him steadily as she ran, but there was a light snow upon the ground, and she could be followed by the trail which her pursuer took up doggedly and determinedly. He knew that he could tire her out and catch her in time. He solaced himself for her temporary escape by thinking, as he ran, how fiercely he would beat his bride before starting for the cave again, and as he thought his teeth showed like those of a dog of to-day.

The chase lasted for hours, and Red Lips had gained perhaps a mile upon her pursuer when her strength began to flag. The pace was telling upon her. She had run many miles. She was almost hopeless of escape when she emerged into a little glade, where sat a man gnawing contentedly at a raw rabbit. He leaped to his feet as the girl appeared, but a moment later recognized her and smiled. The man was Yellow Hair. He reached out part of the rabbit he was devouring, and Red Lips, whose breakfast had, as already mentioned, been a light one, tore at it and consumed it in a moment. Then she told of what had happened.

"We will kill Wolf, and you shall live with me," said Yellow Hair.

Red Lips assented eagerly, and the two consulted together. Near them was a hill, one side of which was a precipice. At the base of the precipice ran a path. The result of the consultation was that Yellow Hair left the girl, and making a swift circuit, came upon the precipice from the farther side, and crouched low upon its summit. The girl ran along the path at the bottom of the declivity for some distance, then, entering a defile which crossed it at right angles, herself made a turn, climbed the hill and joined Yellow Hair. From where they were lying they could see the glade they had just left.

Wolf entered the glade, and noted where the footsteps of the girl and those of a man came together. For a moment or two he appeared troubled and suspicious; then his face cleared. He saw that the tracks had diverged again. He had recognized the man's tracks as those of Yellow Hair.

"Yellow Hair is afraid of my strong arm," he thought. "He dare not stay with Red Lips. I shall catch her soon and beat her and take her with me."

The two crouching upon the precipice watched his every movement. They had rolled to the edge of the declivity a rock as huge as they could control, and now together held it poised over the pathway. Wolf came hurrying along, his head bent down like that of a hound on the scent of game. He reached a spot just beneath the two, and then with a sudden united effort they shoved over the rock. It thundered down upon the unfortunate Wolf with an accuracy which spoke well for the eyes and hands of the lovers. The man was crushed horribly. The two above scrambled down, laughing, and Yellow Hair took from the dead Wolf a necklace of claws and fastened it proudly upon his own person.

"Now we will go to my cave," said he.

"No," said Red Lips; "my father will look for Wolf to-morrow, and will find him. Then he will come and kill us. We must go and kill him to-night."

"Yes," said Yellow Hair.

Hand in hand the two started for the cave of Fangs. The side hill in which it was situated was very steep, and the lovers thought they could duplicate the affair with Wolf. "We must cripple him, anyway," said Yellow Hair, "for I am not strong enough to fight him alone. His club is heavy."

They reached the vicinity of the cave and crept above it. Having, with great difficulty, secured a rock in position to be rolled down, they waited for Fangs to appear. He came out about dusk, and stretched out his arms lazily, when the two above released the rock. It rolled down swiftly and with great force, but there was no such sheer drop afforded as when Wolf was killed, and Fangs heard the stone coming and almost eluded it. It caught one of his legs, as he tried to leap aside, and broke it. Fangs fell to the ground.

With a yell of triumph Yellow Hair bounded to where the crippled man lay and began pounding him upon the head with his club. Fangs had a very thick head. He struggled vigorously, and succeeded in catching Yellow Hair by the wrist. Then he drew the younger man to him and began to throttle him. The case of Yellow Hair was desperate. Fangs's great strength was too much for him. His stifled yells told of his agony.

It was at this juncture that Red Lips demonstrated her quality as a girl of decision and of action. A sharp fragment of slate, several pounds in weight, lay at her feet. She seized it and bounded forward to where the struggle was going on. The back of Fangs's head was fairly exposed. The girl brought down the sharp stone upon it just where the head and spinal column joined, and the crashing thud told of the force of the blow. Delivered with such strength upon such a spot there could be but one result. The man could not have been killed more quickly. Yellow Hair released himself from the dead giant's embrace and rose to his feet. Then, after a short breathing time, to make assurance sure, he picked up his club and battered the head of Fangs until there could be no chance of his resuscitation. The performance was unnecessary, but neither Yellow Hair nor Red Lips was aware of the fact. Their knowledge of anatomy was limited. Neither knew the effect of such a blow delivered properly at the base of the brain.

Yellow Hair finally ceased his exercise and rested on his club. "Shall we go to my cave now?" said he.

"Why should we?" said Red Lips. "Let us take this cave. There is dry grass on the floor."

They entered the cave. She Fox, who had witnessed what had occurred, sat in one corner, and looked up doubtfully as they entered. "I am tired," said Yellow Hair, and he laid himself down and went to sleep.

She Fox looked at her daughter. "I killed three hedgehogs to-day," she whispered.

The new mistress of the cave looked at her kindly. "Go out and dig some roots," she said, "and come back with them, and then with them and the hedgehogs we will have a feast."

She Fox went out and returned in an hour with roots and nuts. Red Lips awakened Yellow Hair, and all three fed ravenously and merrily. It was a great occasion in the cave of the late Fangs. There was no such Christmas feast, at the same time a wedding feast, in any other cave in all the region. And the sequel to the events of the day was as happy as the day itself. Yellow Hair and Red Lips somehow avoided being killed, and grew old together, and left a numerous progeny.

THE CHILD

There was a man who was called upon to write a Christmas article for a great newspaper. He had been a newspaper man himself at one time and it occurred to him, in all reverence, that if some modern daily publication could, nearly 1900 years ago, have reported faithfully all it could learn regarding the Birth in Bethlehem, there might now be fewer doubters in the world. He imagined what a conscientious representative of the Daily Augustinian, had such newspaper existed in Jerusalem, might have written concerning what was the greatest happening in the story of all mankind since the days of Moses and the Shepherd Kings.

Rarely has man worked harder than did this person, who, for a month or so--he had studied it all years before--sought the certain details of the historical story of the Christ. He re-read his Josephus; he sought new sources of information, and called to his aid men who knew most along the lines of the outstanding spokes of the main question. Then he lost himself as a reporter of the Daily Augustinian, and this--headlines and all--is what he wrote:

THE BIRTH OF THE CHILD

IS THEIR MESSIAH COME?

OLD JEWISH PROPHECY DECLARED FULFILLED IN THE BIRTH OF A GREAT
PRINCE.

THE STRANGENESS OF THE STORY.

A CHILD BORN IN A STABLE IN BETHLEHEM ASSERTED TO BE THE CHRIST.

THE ACCOUNT.

A strange story comes to the Daily Augustinian from the suburb of Bethlehem, the result of which has been to create deep feeling among the Jewish residents. It is asserted that the Messiah prophesied in their books of worship has come, and that there will be a revolution in the religious world. This belief seems to be spreading among the poor, but is not concurred in by the more wealthy nor by the rabbis who officiate in the temple, though one of them, named Zacharias, is a believer. Upon the first knowledge gained of this reported marvel every effort was made by the Augustinian to learn all possible concerning it. The account was that the Messiah had come in the form of a babe, born in the stable of an inn at Bethlehem, and a trustworthy member of the Augustinian's staff was sent to the place at once. Here is his account:

It was learned before Bethlehem was reached by the reporter that the story of the Child had first been circulated by those in charge of the flocks kept for sacrifice in the Jewish temple. These are shepherds of an intelligent class who associate with the priests, and whose pastures are very near the city on the Bethlehem road. It was thought best to interview these men before seeking the Child. They were found without difficulty, and told their story simply, a story so remarkable that it is impossible to determine what comment should be made upon it.

The head shepherd, an intelligent and evidently thoroughly honest man of about forty years of age, spoke for all present. "We were watching our flocks as usual on the night concerning the occurrences of which you ask," he said, "when all at once the sky became full of a great light. It was wonderful. We looked up, and there in the midst of the light appeared a form which I cannot describe, it was so bright and dazzling. It spoke to us; spoke in a voice like nothing that can be conceived of for its sweetness, saying that the Savior we have so long awaited had been born to us, and that we might know Him because we should find Him in Bethlehem wrapped in His swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. The wonderful figure had but ceased speaking when the whole world above seemed filled with similar forms, and there came from the heavens such music, such sounds of praising, as I cannot convey an idea of to you more than I can of the figure. We were awestricken at first, and then with one accord we started for Bethlehem. Then another strange thing happened. A great light seemed to float above and ahead of us until we reached Bethlehem, when it hung suspended over the inn. And there we found the Child."

"Is the Child the Messiah of your race? Do you believe it?"

"I _know_!" was the answer. "It is the Messiah!" And that all the shepherds believe was apparent. They appear intelligent and honest and straightforward of speech. It is incomprehensible. The next step was to visit Bethlehem.

There is but one inn in Bethlehem; there was but one place in which to seek the Child. Thither went the seeker after facts. The inn is a plain structure of the usual stone-work of the hillside towns, and the stable, extending backward from the house proper, is largely an excavation in the rock. There is a narrow entrance at the side as well as one through the house. About the gates of the inn stood a number of people, the look upon their faces indicating that they were aware of the great news to their race, but all silent in their joy or disbelief or whatever sentiment affected them. The visitor was shown through the inn into the stable. There were the man, the woman, and the Child. They chanced to be alone at the time.

Of the Child it may be said that it is a beautiful male infant, nothing more, to the ordinary eye, and conducting itself not differently from any babe of its age. It clings to its mother's bosom, knowing nothing of the world, and as yet, caring nothing. The man is a sober-faced Jew, apparently about thirty years of age. The woman would attract attention anywhere, for she is one of the fair women of Nazareth, and even among those so noted for their beauty she must have ranked foremost, so sweet of face is she. She is seemingly not yet twenty years of age, with the dark hair, Oriental features, and wonderful eyes of the women of her class and town, but with an added expression which makes one think of the angels of which the Jewish writers tell. That she herself believes she is the mother of the Messiah, that the Child she has borne is the Christ, does not admit of doubt. Even as she clasped Him to her breast there was awe mingled with the affection in her look, a devotion beyond even that of motherhood. The man, it was apparent, shared with her in the faith. He was asked to tell the story of the miraculous birth, and stepping aside a little from the woman and the Child, he talked gravely and earnestly, answering all questions, since, as he said, it was his duty to tell the great thing to all the world, to Jew and pagan alike.

He was betrothed to the young woman Mary, he said, months ago, in the town of Nazareth, in Galilee, where he is a carpenter. They were to have been wedded, but during the interval between the betrothal and the marriage there came to her a figure, which was that of an angel of the Lord, saying to her that a son would be born to her the paternity of which would be supernatural, and that this son would be the Messiah told of in Jewish prophecy. She informed her betrothed of this, and that she had evidence that what had been told her would occur. At first Joseph was greatly troubled and resolved that the marriage should not take place lest a great disgrace should come upon him. He loved the young woman, and did not want to harm her in the eyes of the world, yet there seemed no alternative but to refuse a consummation of the betrothal. It was at this time that there came to him, as there had come to her, an angelic visitation, in which was confirmed what she had told him, and in which he was commanded to marry her. He was told this in a dream, and believed, and did as he was commanded, though as yet he has been the husband of Mary but in name.

After their marriage came the recent order from Rome for the census of all the Jews, and as it was accompanied by the direction that all should be enumerated, not where they might be living, but where they were registered at birth, Joseph, who was originally from Bethlehem, was compelled to make the journey. He was accompanied by his young wife, who rode upon a donkey, her husband walking all the way from Nazareth beside her. Upon their arrival in Bethlehem they found the place so full of those called in by the census that there was no place for them to lodge. The owner of the inn, though, who knew of Joseph's family, did all he could to relieve them, and they were so given lodging in the stable. There to the patient Mary came a woman's great trial, and the Child was born. Then came the shepherds, with their wonderful tale of what they had seen, followed, as related, by their adoration.

It was learned by inquiry in Bethlehem that Joseph, the carpenter, though a poor man, is a direct descendant of David, the famous Jewish king, and, strangely enough, too, that the beautiful Mary belongs to the same princely family. The Hebrew records of this great race are most complete, and there is no doubt as to the blood of the man and woman. Mary, so it is said, is the daughter of a gentlewoman named Anna and of a Hebrew who was held in great respect. There is another most singular fact to be related in this connection. It will be remembered that some months ago, when it came the turn of the venerable priest Zacharias to offer the sacrifice in the Jewish temple--a privilege which comes to a priest but once in his lifetime--he returned before the people from the inner sanctuary stricken dumb, and manifesting by signs that he had seen a vision, the event creating great excitement among the members of his faith. Later he made it known that in the sanctuary he had a vision of an angel, who declared to him that his wife, who was childless, should have a son in her old age who should be a great prophet and preacher, proclaiming the Messiah. Since that time, the aged couple, who live south of Jerusalem, have indeed been blessed with a child, the father's dumbness disappearing with its birth and the priest again praising the Lord of his people. To this child has been given the name of John.

What is most remarkable and unexplainable of all is something confirmed by Joseph and Mary, as well as by Zacharias and his wife. The wife of Zacharias, who is named Elizabeth, is a cousin of Mary, and some impulse moved the latter, after she had explained her condition to Joseph, to visit her aged kinswoman. She did so, and no sooner had she reached the home of Zacharias and entered the door than Elizabeth, who had not known of her coming, broke forth into praise of Mary as to be the mother of her Lord. The unborn babe, it is declared, recognized the presence of the Messiah, and so Elizabeth was led to adore and prophesy.

Many Nazarenes who are now in Jerusalem were seen, and all confirmed the story, so far as they could know of the relations of Joseph and Mary, while many people of the hill town where Zacharias and Elizabeth live confirm all that is related of the extraordinary occurrence in their household, of the husband's recovery from dumbness when his child was born, and of his apparent inspiration at the time. There is a strong feeling among the Jews, and the belief in the real appearance of the Messiah is spreading, though, as intimated, the priests of the temple, with the exception already alluded to, seem disposed to discredit the revelation. They declare that the Messiah would scarcely come in such humble way; that the Prince of the House of David who shall renew the glory of their race will come in great magnificence and that all will recognize Him at once.

What has been related is what was learned some days ago from the interviews given and from inquiries in all quarters where it seemed likely that they would throw any light on what has really occurred. Since then something as inexplicable has happened as anything heretofore reported, something from many points of view more startling and unexplainable. There came into Jerusalem recently three Persians of the sort called magi, or wise men, the students of the great race who have been to an extent friendly with the Jews since the time when Babylon was at its greatest. These three men, who had made a journey which must have occupied them nearly two years, seemed hurriedly intent on some great mission, and presented themselves at once before the Tetrarch, Herod, asking for information. They wanted to know where the Child was to be found who was born King of the Jews, seeming to think that the Tetrarch must know and would direct them willingly. They said they had seen the Child's star in the far east and had come to do Him homage. This was astonishing information to the Tetrarch. As is well known, there are many political intrigues in progress now, and Herod has adopted a severe policy. As between the Romans and the Jews he has been considerate in the endeavor to preserve pleasant relations with both parties, but he is most alert. His reply to the magi was that he did not know where the Child was, but he hoped they would succeed in their mission. He requested, furthermore, that when they had found the King they should inform him, that he also might visit Him. The magi departed, and shrewd officers were at once sent to follow them, but, as subsequently appeared, with slight success. The magi eluded the officers and found the Child. Joseph and Mary had moved from the stable into a house in Bethlehem, and there the three Persians bowed down before the Babe and, after the style of adoration in their country, presented gifts--gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

These last related facts were learned, as were those first given, in Bethlehem. The next step in the inquiry was naturally to seek an interview with the magi, the three travelers from Persia who so oddly showed their belief in the supernatural nature of what has occurred, but they were found with difficulty. After visiting the Infant they had returned at once to town, and it proved a hard task to discover their whereabouts. It was ascertained, after much inquiry, that three Persians of the better class had been stopping at a small hotel near the southern gate, and a visit to the place revealed the fact that they were still there, though about to leave. They had, after their visit to Bethlehem, remained close indoors, and, the keeper of the hotel said, seemed apprehensive of a visit from the authorities. The reporter was presented to three fine-looking Chaldeans, evidently men of some importance at home, who received him with reserve, but who, after learning his occupation and object, became a little more communicative. The eldest of the three, a man past middle-age, with full beard and remarkably keen eyes, acted as spokesman for all. He was asked what he thought of the Child at Bethlehem.

"It is the Messiah of the Jews," was his prompt reply.

"How do you know that?"

"We know it by His star--the star that was prophesied as heralding His coming. That the Jewish Messiah was to come was foretold by their own prophets and by our own Zoroaster. We are astronomers, and know the mystery of the heavens and the nativities. In what is called Mount Victory in our country is a cave, from the mouth of which the heavens are studied by wise men. About two years ago appeared the star of the Messiah. Then we began our journey to the city of the Jews to pay homage to the Great Ruler born."

"But why do you, who are not Jews, come on such an expedition?"

"Our belief is broad. We care very little for any old teachings which are not verified by celestial phenomena. We saw the prophecy fulfilled. That was enough."

"What about the star? Is it something which will not last?"

"No. It is a star which will last as long as any, but one which is visible on earth only at intervals of long ages. Then it foretells a great event. It appeared last just before the birth of Moses."

"What is it like?"

"It is a bright, almost red, star, visible in the sign Pisces of the zodiac only when Jupiter and Saturn are in conjunction. It is the star of the Messiah."

His companions assented to all the elder man said, but he declined to talk further on the subject. The name of the speaker was given as Melchoir; the names of his two friends were Caspar and Balthasar. The first was the one who made a gift of gold for the child, while the second contributed frankincense, and the third myrrh. The reporter returned to the hotel later in the day to ask certain additional questions, but the visitors had left hurriedly. The landlord said they had gone none too soon, as agents of the authorities visited the place soon after their disappearance. It is said that they were warned in a dream that they must escape. They were all three well mounted, and are now, no doubt, some distance from Jerusalem.

Such are the facts. Such is the story as learned of the Messiah of the Jews. Were their prophets right? Has the great Prince come? Is the glory of Rome to pass away before the glory of the Hebrew Christ?

Will the Tetrarch remain undisturbed?

THE BABY AND THE BEAR

This is a true story of the woods:

It was afternoon on the day before a holiday, and a boy of nine and a fat-legged baby of three years were frolicking in front of a rough log house beside a stream in a forest of northern Michigan. The house was miles from the nearest settlement, yet the boy and baby were the only ones about the place. The explanation of this circumstance was simple.

It was proposed to build a sawmill in the forest, and ship the lumber downstream to the great lake. The river was deep enough to allow the passage up to the sawmill site of a small barge, and a preliminary of the work was to build a rude dock. A pile-driver was towed up the river, but as this particular pile-driver had not the usual stationary steam-engine accompanying it, the great iron weight which was dropped upon the piles to drive them into the river bed was elevated by means of a windlass and mule power. The weight, once lifted, was released by means of a trigger connected by a cord with a post, where a man driving the mule around could pull it. The arrangement was primitive but effective.

A Mr. Hart, the man in charge of the four or five workmen engaged, lived with his wife and two children, Johnny and the baby, in the log house referred to. The men had leave of absence, and had left early in the morning to spend the day in the settlement, about ten miles off. Later in the day Mr. Hart and his wife had driven there also to obtain certain things for making the holiday dinner a little out of the common, and to secure certain small gifts for Johnny and the baby. So it came that Johnny, a sturdy and pretty reliable youth of his years, was left in charge of things, with strict injunctions to take good care of the baby. A luncheon neatly arranged in a basket was likewise left to be consumed whenever he and his more youthful charge should become hungry. The pair had been having a good time all by themselves on the day referred to. Breakfast had been eaten very late that morning, but Johnny was a boy and growing. It was about one o'clock when he proposed to the baby that they eat dinner. That corpulent young gentleman assented with great promptness. Johnny went into the house and got the lunch. The broad platform of the pile-driver, tied firmly beside the river's bank, attracted Johnny's attention as he emerged, and he conceived the idea that there would be a good place for enjoyment of the feast. He helped the baby to get on board. The great mass of iron used in the work chanced to be raised to the top of the framework, and in the space underneath, between the timbers was a cozy niche in which to sit and eat. The boy and baby sat down there and proceeded to business.

It occurred to the boy that he had done a tolerably good thing. He didn't analyze the situation particularly, but he had an idea that eating on the barge was fun. The platform rocked gently, the air was crisp and keen, a smell of the pine woods came over the river, and Johnny felt pretty well. He thought this having charge of things all by himself was by no means bad.

"Whoosh!"

Born in the backwoods though he had been, Johnny did not at first recognize that sound--half grunt, half snort, and full of a terrible meaning. He sprang to his feet and looked up the bank. There, gazing down upon the pair on the platform, was a big black bear!

The beast looked fierce and hungry. The weather had been cold, and bears which had not gone into winter quarters were all savage. A yearling steer had been killed by one in the woods a few days before. The attention of the brute upon the bank seemed fixed upon the baby. There was something in its fierce eyes indicating that it had found just what it needed. If there was anything that would make a meal just to its taste that day it was baby--fat baby, about two years old. It gave another "whoosh!" and came lumbering down the bank.

For a moment Johnny stood panic-stricken; then instinctively he clutched the baby--that individual kicking and protesting wildly at being dragged away from luncheon--and stumbled toward the other end of the barge. As Johnny and the baby reached one end, the bear came down upon the other, and shuffled rapidly toward them. There was slight hope for the fleeing couple, at least for the baby. That personage seemed destined for a bear's dinner that day. Suddenly the bear hesitated. He had reached the remains of the dinner.

Part of what Johnny's mother had provided for the midday repast was bread and butter, plentifully besmeared with honey. If a bear, big or little, has one weakness in this world it is just honey. He will do for honey what a miser will do for gain, what a politician will do for office, what a lover will do for his sweetheart, what some women will do for dress. For that bear to pass that bread and honey was simply an impossibility. He would stop and devour it. It would take but a moment or two, and the baby could come afterward.

The boy gave a frightened glance behind him as he jumped off the platform and scrambled up the bank with the baby in his arms. He saw that the bear had paused, and a gleam of hope came to him. He put the baby down on its feet and started to run with it. But the baby was heavy; its legs besides being, as already remarked, very fat, were very short, and progress was not rapid. The bear, the boy knew, would not be occupied with the luncheon long. He reached the windlass where the mule had worked, and leaned pantingly against the post holding the cord by pulling which the weight was released from the top of the timbers on the barge. A wild idea of trying to climb the post with the baby came into his head. He looked up and noticed the cord.

Like a flash came to the terrified boy a great thought. If he dared only stop a moment! If he dared try to pull the cord as he had seen his father do and release the trigger which sustained the great weight! There was the bear right under it!

Even as this thought came to Johnny the bear looked up and growled. Johnny grabbed at the baby and started to run again, but the baby stumbled and rolled over into a little hollow with its fat legs sticking upward. In desperation Johnny jumped back and caught at the cord. He pulled with all his might, but the trigger at the top of the pile-driver sustained a great burden and the thing required more than Johnny's strength. "Come, baby, quick!" he cried. "Put your arm about me and lean back!" The young gentleman addressed had regained his feet again and was placid. He waddled up, put his arm about Johnny, and leaned back sturdily. The bear looked up again and growled, this time more earnestly. The luncheon was about finished. Johnny set his teeth and pulled again. The baby added, say, thirty pounds to the pull. It was just what was needed. There was a creak at the top of the pile-driver, and then--

"W-h-i-r-r! T-h-u-d!"

Six hundred pounds of iron dropped from a height of twenty-five feet on the small of the back of an elephant would finish him. It is more than enough for a bear. Over the river and through the forest went out one awful roar of brute agony, then all was still. A bear with its backbone broken and crushed down into its stomach is just as dead as a chipmunk would be under the same circumstances. For a moment the silence prevailed, to be followed by the yell of a healthy youngster in great distress. As the trigger yielded, Johnny and the baby had keeled heels over head backward into the soft moss, and Johnny had fallen on the baby.

The boy arose a little dazed, lifted the howling infant to its feet, and then looked toward the boat. The bear was there--crushed beneath the iron. From one side of the mass projected the animal's hind-quarters, from the other its front, and there were the glaring eyes and savage open jaws. It was enough. Johnny grabbed the baby and started for the house.

Johnny was perfectly convinced that the bear was dead, very dead, but he didn't propose to take any chances. He liked adventure, but he was satisfied with the quantity for one afternoon. He was young, but he knew when he had enough. He dragged the baby inside, bolted the door, and waited. At about six o'clock in the evening his father and mother returned. Johnny didn't have much to say when he opened the door and came out with the baby to meet them, but for a man of his size his chest protruded somewhat phenomenally. He told his story. His mother caught up the fat baby and kissed it. His father took him by the hand, and they went down and looked at the bear. Tears came in the man's eyes as he laid his hand on Johnny's head.

Along in January or February it was worth one's while to be up in Michigan where they were building a sawmill. It was worth one's while to note the appearance of a young man, nine years of age or thereabouts, who would saunter out of the log house along in the afternoon, advance toward the river, and then, with his legs spread wide apart, his hands in his pockets, and his hat stuck on the back of his head, stand on a small knoll and look down upon the spot where _he_ killed a bear the day before Christmas. It was worth one's while to note the expression upon his countenance as he stood there and as he finally stalked away, whistling Yankee Doodle, with perhaps, a slight lack of precision, but with tremendous spirit and significance.

AT THE GREEN TREE CLUB

Tom Oldfield sat comfortably over his newspaper in his big chair at the Green Tree Club. He gave a good-natured swing of his shoulders, but heaved a sigh when he was told that two ladies desired to see him immediately on important business. The well-trained club servant, a colored man, gave the message with a knowing look, subdued by respectful sympathy.

Now, Tom Oldfield was well known for his gallantry, and no one had ever accused him of being disturbed over a call from ladies, under any circumstances, but all had not yet learned what was the sad, sincere truth, that Mr. Oldfield decidedly objected to any interruption when he was smoking his after-breakfast cigar and glancing over the news of the day. While engaged in this business Mr. Oldfield insisted upon a measure of quiet and self-concentration. When it was over he was ready to meet the rest of the world--and not before.

And so he sighed and made his moan to himself as he took his eyes from the column of The Daily Warwhoop, and bade Joseph show the ladies to the club library, his pet loafing place, not only despite of, but because of the fact that it was open to visitors and much frequented by club members at all hours. Tom Oldfield was a genial and companionable soul.

His welcoming smile faded as his kindly eyes took in the advancing group. Led by Joseph in a most deferential, not to say deprecating, manner, the two ladies slowly crossed the big room, and came around the great table to the chair set for them near Mr. Oldfield's accepted harbor in the club rooms.

One of the visitors was a middle-aged woman of much elegance of figure, and with a face the outlines of which were beautiful, while its expression of discontent, accentuated by lines of worry, made its owner distinctly unattractive. She was clothed in all the glory of richly exaggerated plainness and in the latest fashion for morning walking dress. Her daughter, simply the beautiful mother over again without the disagreeable expression, though her young face was clouded by grief and concern, was the other caller. Joseph announced the names of the fair interlopers, and Oldfield groaned inwardly as he heard them.

"Mrs. and Miss Chester, Mr. Oldfield," said Joseph, with a low and sweeping Ethiopian bow, and after the ladies were seated he withdrew, not before casting upon Oldfield, however, a significant glance.

Oldfield was slow to seat himself again, after his greeting to his guests. Manifestly, he thought, his easy chair would not do for him during the coming interview. He selected a high-backed cane-seat chair from those around the writing table, and as he had already twice said, "Good morning, Mrs. Chester," and "I am very glad to meet you"--the last being a wicked perversion of his real emotions--he waited for the party of the second part to open the business of the meeting.

"We have come to you--and hope you will pardon us for troubling you, Mr. Oldfield--"

The club man saw that Mrs. Chester was not going to cry, and took courage.

"We need your help," the lady continued, "and we are sure you will give it to us."

"I shall be very glad if I can in any way assist or oblige you, Mrs. Chester," Oldfield assured the elder lady, while he looked determinedly away from the younger one, who, he was positive, was getting ready to cry. "What do you want me to do? Ned isn't in any trouble is he?" This was going straight to the point, as Mr. Oldfield knew full well.

Of course, Ned Chester was at the bottom of this spectacular disturbance of his morning. It might as well be out and over the sooner.

"Oh! Mr. Oldfield," cried the daughter, "have you seen papa?"

She was bound to cry, if she hadn't already begun. Oldfield was sure of it.

"Catherine!" expostulated the girl's mother, and Oldfield noticed the sharp acrimony of voice and gesture. "Mr. Oldfield," she softened as she addressed him, but there was a hardness about her every feature and expression, "my husband has not been seen nor heard from since last Sunday, when he left home, and I am almost distracted."

"And we have waited until we can bear it no longer. This is Friday--it is almost a week," broke in the girl, ignoring her mother's protesting wave of the hand and angry glance.

"Oh, he's all right," asserted Oldfield. "Don't worry. We will find him at once; I'm sure some one in the club will know all about him. You have, of course, inquired at his office?"

"Yes, and no one there knows anything about him. His letters lie unopened on his desk; he has not been there since Saturday."

There was no occasion for all this fencing. The heaven's truth, known to all three, was that Ned Chester was away on a symmetrical and gigantic spree, according to his custom once or twice a year.

Oldfield, looking straight at Mrs. Chester's slightly bent brow, said, quietly, "I have known Ned Chester for twenty years; it is no new thing for him to be away for a day or a night occasionally, is it?"

"No," replied the poor wife, "but he has never stayed so long before, and I know something has happened--he has been hurt, may be killed. We must find him!"

"You say he left home Sunday?"

"Yes, Sunday evening. He left in a fit of anger over some little thing, and now--"

She was dangerously near breaking down, and Oldfield could plainly hear smothered sobs beside him on the side of his chair toward which he chose not to look.

"I will inquire," he said, hopefully, "and I know I can find him almost immediately. Nothing has happened to hurt him. Sit here a moment and wait for me."

Just outside the door Oldfield met Joseph. "Well, where is he?" he asked.

"Mr. Oldfield, I tell you Mr. Chester has on a most awful jag, and he fell and almost split open his skull Tuesday morning, and I've had him over at the Barrett House ever since. The doctor has patched him up, but he ain't fit to be seen, not by ladies."

"Pretty nervous, is he?"

"Nervous! Why, he's just missed snakes this time, that's all!"

"Oh, nonsense! He's not so bad as that; but I must go and see him. When did you see him last?"

"Stayed all night with him, sir, and left him quite easy this morning. Don't let the ladies see him, Mr. Oldfield; it would break him up."

"Break him up! What do you think about their own feelings!"

"Well, you see, he is dreading to go home, and to see her walk right in on him would break him all up. It would so! He would have 'em sure then."

"Joseph, you've got sense. Take this for any little thing you may need," said Oldfield, as he put a green colored piece of paper in Joseph's hand, and turned back into the library where the waiting women sat.

"Your father is safe, Miss Chester," he said, softly to the pale, anxious daughter, who ran to meet him; "you shall see him soon. I will tell your mother all about it."

Miss Chester, expressing great relief, and, giving Oldfield her hand, sat obediently down to the illustrated books and magazines he handed her. She was quite out of earshot of the place where her mother sat impatiently waiting for news.

"Your husband is all right, Mrs. Chester. He has met with a slight accident, but is under a doctor's care at the Barrett House. I will go to see him. Without doubt he will be able to go home in a day or two."

The wife nearly lost self-control, but as Oldfield talked on, reassuring her of her husband's safety, she gradually became calm, and then the look of settled hardness came back into her face.

"What shall I do?" she burst out. "How can I go on in such shame and agony year after year? You're an old friend of Ned's, Mr. Oldfield--excuse me--perhaps you can advise me."

"I want to," answered Oldfield, promptly. "But will you hear me without becoming angry?"

"Certainly! I will be thankful for your advice, Mr. Oldfield."

The man had a certain hardness in his own look now.

"Let us sit down by this window. There, you look comfortable. Now, let's see--oh, yes, I remember where I wanted to begin. Ned is one of those fellows who find Sunday a bad day--and holidays. I've heard him say often how he hated holidays; and it's then, or on a Sunday, that he goes off on these drinking bouts, isn't it?"

"Yes," gasped the astonished woman. This cool, practical way of looking at the trial of her life was strange to her; she found it hard to adjust herself to the situation.

"He's a hard-working man, is Ned, a regular toiler and moiler. When he is at work he is all right, or when he is at play, so far as that goes. He is never so happy and so entirely himself as when he is among congenial friends, unless it is when over a good book, or off hunting or fishing. These crazy drinking spells come on at Christmas or Thanksgiving time, or on some Sunday, when he is at home with his family."

Mrs. Chester's face had flushed painfully. Not seeming to notice her agitation, Oldfield continued: "You remarked, did you not, that Ned left home in anger Sunday evening. Pardon me, since I have said so much already, was there some argument or contention in the house--between you and Ned, for instance?"

"It was a little quarrel, nothing serious," faltered Mrs. Chester.

"I don't want to hear about it," said Oldfield, hurriedly, himself much embarrassed, and inwardly fuming over himself as a colossal idiot for entering upon such a conversation. "I only want you to think for a minute about the last hour or two Sunday evening before Ned left home. No doubt he was to blame for whatever that was unpleasant, not a doubt; but since you ask me for advice, can't you think of some way to make Sundays and holidays endurable to Ned, bless his big heart! Be a little easy on him, a little careless about his ways. Ned is such a simple fellow! Hard words, irony and sarcasm, complainings and scoldings cut him very deeply! Don't be offended, but don't you think that perhaps you could manage it to somehow keep Ned from flinging out of the house desperate and foolish every once in a while, on some Sunday or holiday? I'll tell you! Begin early--begin sometimes before he is awake--to get things ready, and keep them going so that Ned won't start out, a reckless, emotional maniac before nightfall!"

Oldfield paused, struck by his own earnestness and plain speaking, and somewhat scared.